


Fan Mail

by sksNinja



Series: Work of Fiction [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Artist!Hanzo, Author!McCree, Established Relationship, Feelings, Gen, fan mail, semi-unrealistic prison system
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 11:21:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14851793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sksNinja/pseuds/sksNinja
Summary: Hanzo has a fan.





	Fan Mail

**Author's Note:**

> A post-story mini-fic from the "Work of Fiction," universe. Reading the first part is recommend.  
> Edit: a [podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14520684) of this part has been added!

It took Hanzo less than a year after the paperback release of “Stranger in the Storm,” for one of his clients to recognize him.

It was during an emailed art appraisal. The exchange had been standard enough, but a simple question tacked onto the end of the message gave him pause.

“Are you the same Hanzo Shimada that’s dating J.J.M?”

With a huff, Hanzo had decided to ignore the question, and simply forwarded his quote on the client’s creepy doll without any additional comment. Similar questions appeared a few times after that, but the ~~correct~~ assumption was easy enough to disregard.

The first time a client recognized him in person was shorty after the release of, “The Unforgotten Gale,” the next in the “Stranger in the Storm,” series. He was halfway through his appraisal on the client’s delightful set of famille rose porcelain vases, when the owner opened her mouth with a gasp, proclaimed that she _knew_ she had recognized him from somewhere, and burst into a rapid exclamation involving cowboys and love stories and _him_ and- well. He interrupted _that_ conversation with a harsh glare and a snippy ~~false~~ comment about his opinion of romance novels in general, before muttering out a ballpark quote on the vases and _insisting_ that he had somewhere else he _had_ to be at that moment.

Hanzo was embarrassed to admit he avoided her for the rest of roadshow.

He also made sure to apologize to McCree later.

Unquestionably worse, was the conference some few months later with his coworker Satya.

Satya knew. She _had_ to know. The way she had loftily brought up the topic of romance novel while they were both on break. The way she just _happened_ to have a copy of one of McCree’s novels as an example. The way she phrased her backhanded compliments in way that he need not directly respond. All with that blastedly knowing smirk on her face. He had managed the encounter as best he could, speaking few words and with a noticeable lack of eye contact. He managed to disengage several minutes later, with what little dignity he could muster.

It was after the release of “Youth’s Drought: The Story Before the Storm,” that it finally got through to him, that he might finally have to admit it. That he, Hanzo Shimada, might have ... fans.

The message had been sent to Hanzo’s work email, but it contained no request for appraisal. It was not even work related. The sender simply wished to express their appreciation for Hanzo’s own art. They had connected the truth of his identity some time ago, and had been following his career as an artist through J.J.Morricone’s novels.

They praised his ability to breath feelings into his illustrations, commenting on everything from color composition, to how the illustration tied into the story. They even remarked on how his and Jesse’s love story had affected them personally. Sharing tales of their own relationship in comparison. The whole thing was multiple pages long. While skeptical, Hanzo found himself touched. His fingers nearly itched for his sketchpad.

But more than the email, more than anything else, it was the arrival of the letter that changed things for Hanzo.

Hanzo was at home, browsing novel forums on his phone, when McCree sat next to him on the couch to sort through his fan mail. Not his email, but actual physical letters he received from fans. They weren’t overly common, so the handful he picked up from his P.O. box every month was always a treat.

Hanzo had just knocked McCree’s feet off the table (again), when the larger man snorted and passed him an opened letter.

He sighed and looked it over, expecting some ridiculous fan art. But with a quick glance, he realized the letter was not meant for Jesse. In fact, only the opening paragraph was written in English. After a brief explanation about using McCree as a means to contact Hanzo, the remainder was written in neat flowing Kanji. Hanzo looked up at McCree with a look of hesitant surprise.

“Well,” McCree prompted. “What does it say?”

Hanzo hesitantly cleared his throat. “Dear Mr. Morricone,” he began.

“Nah come on hun,” McCree waved a hand. “After that!”

Hanzo scoffed slightly as he read ahead. “They uh, apologize if they’ve overstepped their bounds, but knew they had to contact me the moment they saw my work.” There was a familiar tilt to the script that Hanzo couldn’t quite place. “They go on to say they admire how far I’ve come as an artist and…” Hanzo took a shaky breath as he realized where he would have last seen this handwriting.

McCree gave a look of concern at Hanzo’s expression, but said nothing; waiting to see if Hanzo would continue. He’d only seen him like this a handful of times, none of them good.

“They’re proud of me,” Hanzo voice finally cracked. The page crinkled as he gripped the paper signed by his “biggest fan.”

 

* * *

 

“Mail.”

The guard dropped in her weekly deliveries; a few magazines and a small box, then closed the service hatch of the door. It clanged shut with the same finality as always.

Mizuki Shimada stood to retrieve her deliveries, opening the box with a slow sense of anticipation. She peeled back the tape, pried open the cardboard flaps, and pulled out the packaging. The hardcover book within was nothing if not a thing of beauty. She reached inside to pull it out.

The heft of it was a satisfying weight. The smell of the pages somehow reminiscent despite it being the first time they had been opened. Mizuki trailed her fingers over the lettering of, “The Tempest’s Revenge.” While this newest volume had been long awaited, it was not the story with-in that held interest to her. No, it was the cover that brought warmth to her heart.  

A steady smile washed over her face as she admired the angry red storm clouds crashing over a deep crumbling gorge, the ruins of a derailed train smoking off to the side. It would be hard to say how long she dwelled on the dust-devils that swirled around the cowboy’s boots, or on the delicate crimson blooms of the wildflowers in the foreground.

She closed her eyes and imagined the smell of fresh blended paint, the scrape of brush against canvas, the sounds of young voices calling, “Hai Sensei!”

She took a deep steadying breath as she thought back on the many strict lessons, on the feelings of satisfaction as their efforts reaped rewards beyond their wildest expectations.

She clenched her jaw as the memories took a darker turn. She recalled the chaos of that disastrous day. The sudden warrants, the authorities running rampant through the household, their network of frauds uncovered, everything exposed.

Genji had been gone for months at that point; released from the hospital and seemingly disappeared into thin air. Mizuki had been frustrated and angry for weeks, but would admit on some level that the boy was probably better off apart from the family, even before this apparent raid.

She remembered running through the halls, hair rapidly spilling loose, yelling at the remaining servants, and scouring the grounds for some way to stop whatever it was that was happening.

Then she had found Hanzo. Hanzo, who did nothing but calmly kneel at the foot of the shrine, staring blankly at their precious dragon scroll high up on the wall. Hanzo, who had seemed both unsurprised and uncaring of the mayhem surrounding them. With a growing sense of realization, she knew it was Hanzo who had doomed them all.

She remembered grabbing the fabric of his collar, spitting words in his face like poison off of her lips. That he would live to regret this, that he would not pass this unscathed, that he would go down with the rest of them.

She also remembered the the utter lack of resistance in his stance, seeing the accepting sorrow in his eyes. The comprehension that he knew the repercussions of his actions very well. That he knew that he _was_ going down with them. As if _that_ was the plan all along.

She remembered finding that suddenly unacceptable. Remembered scouring her mind for a plan. Remembered measuring the blame, building an argument, and making her choice.

Her eyes snapped open as she pulled herself back to the present. Past memories pulled her in too often these days.

Mizuki stood to place her new book among the others on her shelf. Maybe she would read them someday. She turned to sit at her desk and pulled out her best stationary paper and her favorite pen. It was time for another letter.

After accidentally discovering her previous student’s artwork (on the cover of a romance novel of all things), Mizuki had been helplessly drawn to learn more. Much of the author's tale was unbelievable. At least her serious little Hanzo seemed to have finally found his passion.

It had taken some effort to hunt down this "Morricone's" address. It took even longer to gather the courage to send that first letter, despite the message saying little more than a few carefully phrased statements and an anonymous signature.

Mizuki had sent a few letters since then, and while their length and eloquence had increased somewhat, she still withheld both her name and a return address. Whether out of cowardice or some outdated attempt to protect him, she couldn't say herself.

Sometimes she wondered if Hanzo knew it was her, if he had figured it out. A selfish part of her hoped he did. She wondered if he was in contact with Genji. What he might tell him. She wondered what they might think of her. Wondered if they even read her letters in the first place.

Her answer came in the form of an interview some weeks later.

Internet access in the compound was both limited and supervised, but she managed to find an actual video recording with not just J.J. Morricone, but also his previously illusive illustrator/boyfriend.

The segment was part of some droll day-time television show with an obnoxiously blonde host, but Mizuki found she couldn’t have cared less. Because there he was, Hanzo, her greatest pupil, bold and proud, sitting right next to that ridiculous cowboy.

It really struck her how… happy he looked. The Hanzo she had known was cold and abrasive, stubborn and ridged. Unwilling to show anything that might be mistaken for weakness. Yet even as she watched, Hanzo laughed and hit Morricone's arm while he regaled an embarrassing tale of their absurd and dramatic love story.

Near the end of the interview, the host brought up Hanzo’s recently growing career in illustration, of him expanding his artistic talents past that of book covers.

When Hanzo had mentioned Morricone’s praises didn’t count, the host had asked, “Then what did it? You've always been so secluded, people thought you were fake! What pushed you to come out and show the world your skill?”

Hanzo had paused in thought, before a slow smile spread across his face. “A number of things,” he began. “But I will admit no small part is due to support I received from my biggest fan.” Mizuki froze as Hanzo turned to look at the camera, “my mother.”

Mizuki wordless covered her mouth with her hands. And if the security cameras were there to witness the tears running down her cheeks? Well, then perhaps that was alright after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't forgotten about this world I promise! 
> 
> There's another mini-fic I wanna share before next NaNoWiMo so look forward to it!


End file.
